Dear Diary
by make-mine-a-kiaora
Summary: Lisbon and Jane both turn to diary writing as a way to process their thoughts and feelings post the demise of Red John and the closure of the CBI. Chapters will alternate between their POVs. Rated T for language. Comments and reviews are always welcome.
1. Chapter 1

_With thanks to Mossi.b, who's insightful comments on 'All systems go' inspired this piece, and to Sue Shay and Cumberland River Relic, for their beta reading, critique and friendship. Check out their latest stories – 'White Out' from Sue, solving crimes in the Colorado winter, and Cumberland River Relic's heartwarming romance, 'Clear Blue Morning'._

_Disclaimer: I own no rights to the Mentalist and make no money from fanfiction._

**Dear Diary**

**_November 21st, 2013 (1 week post everything)_**

Dear Diary,

What on earth am I supposed to do with you?

If Jane was here, he'd torment me without mercy for this. Scrub that, if Jane was here, I wouldn't dare commit my thoughts to paper. He'd be rifling through them faster than a jacked Ferrari on the freeway. Then again, if he was here, I'd have someone to talk to. And I don't, so I'm doing this instead. Someone once told me, years ago – back when I worked for Bosco in SFPD – that writing things down helped you to process them. I'm not sure who. Bobby, perhaps. Maybe he was right. I'll soon find out. Got to sift through the wreckage sometime.

So, Red John. Or should I say McAllister? We got him in the end. I always thought we would, though I prayed that the price wouldn't be too high. And whatdaya know. In the ways that truly matter – the lives of my team, and particularly Jane's life and freedom – we got away with it. And for that I am truly thankful. But in every other respect, it was overwhelming. I gave the CBI eleven years of my life and far more time and commitment than I was paid for. My team did similarly. But we're all out of work now. Dumped at the roadside, with no salary and only the promise of minimal severance pay once the bureaucrats get their act together.

I knew Bertram was a jackass, but I never dreamed that he, or so many former colleagues, were corrupt to the point of cold-blooded murder. It's… unbelievable. And Abbott… Hell, I know he's only doing his job, and nobody should expect to escape suspicion, but that guy just doesn't know when to stop. Nothing I can do or say will get through to him. He even locked us all up for three days, the team that brought down Red John and busted open the Blake Association! Like it's all our fault. Sometimes I think that Jane's effrontery in standing up to him annoys him more than the root and branch corruption in Californian law enforcement. And he'll never forgive me or the rest of the team for letting Jane escape arrest and get to McAllister. Abbott seriously needs to get his priorities right. And to let up. That man is like one of those toys that you wind up and it just keeps going, straight ahead, irrespective of what's all around him.

And McAllister. I know he was on Jane's shortlist, but I really didn't think it was him. I shook hands with him, more than once, and Jane did too. And he looked us in the eye and laughed at us both. It galls me. I could almost scream. I can't imagine how Jane feels.

I finally got the last voicemail Jane left me. I've saved it. Keep playing it back. Managed to persuade Abbott to let me keep the phone and the number, even though it was from work. I know why. He'll be bugging it, hoping Jane calls again. But he won't. I know that. Jane's not stupid.

What can I tell you? He got his revenge, and, from what I've heard of the details, McAllister had time to be scared and to suffer, though not as much as the pain he inflicted on so many other people. And I'm glad the bastard is dead. That his Blake cronies can't get him off the hook. Jane deserves closure and I'm glad he got it, though there's no way that he could stand trial and get acquitted again.

Oh, Jane. I miss him. More than I ever thought possible. Even after that Vegas crap that he pulled. This time I know that it's forever. He's on the lam. I expect he's left the country by now, or bunkered up in some distant one horse town with a gold standard change of identity. He can't come back. Not now. Or even let me know how he's doing. Abbott would be on him like a terrier on a rat. Urgh. Mr F.B.I. I couldn't believe it when I first noticed his latest stupid idea. The overbearing idiot's got two plain clothes officers running surveillance on me – following me to the supermarket - for no justifiable reason apart from his wounded pride. To use a 'Janeism', it's irksome. But what does it matter? I have no job and no secrets. They're going to get very bored.

I need to get my life back together, I know. Tommy keeps calling, pestering me about getting another job and going to visit him and Annie. I've even been invited by the other two, to go back to Chicago. But I need space now. Space to just think. And to write. Definitely write. God, I hope that this is working.


	2. Chapter 2

_With thanks to Mossi.b, who's insightful comments on 'All systems go' inspired this piece, and to Sue Shay and Cumberland River Relic, for their beta reading, critique and friendship. Check out their latest stories – 'White Out' from Sue, solving crimes in the Colorado winter, and Cumberland River Relic's heartwarming romance, 'Clear Blue Morning'._

_Disclaimer: I own no rights to the Mentalist and make no money from fanfiction._

_The Mentalist has been shortlisted as one of two shows for the "save our show" campaign. It's currently the runner up based on previous voting rounds. To vote for it, look for 'save our show' using google or similar._

**_December 6__th__, 2013_**

Dear Diary,

This is a first for me. I haven't used paper to store my memories since I was about six years old. And probably not before that. I began the first room in my memory palace on my sixth birthday. My father insisted. One of the few worthwhile things he ever did for me, though of course he had ulterior motives. He always did.

It's strange, thinking back to then. The first 'room' was the cab at the front of the Airstream that we shared. The dials and lights all became placeholders. Now the palace comprises the full carney circuit that I toured with my father, plus Malibu, the CBI bullpen and attic, Lisbon's office and a special room devoted to McAllister's death. I don't spend much time there. I did what I had to do and it's done. He's not worth my memories or any more of my time.

I wonder if this place will end up in my memory palace too. Hard to say at the moment. The system has gone down for, what's the term, 'scheduled maintenance'. Or maybe 'emergency maintenance'. I'm not sure. Last time it shut down, I was in the hospital where I met Sophie. That was the only time. But this time isn't so frightening. I can still feel it there. It hasn't vanished. It's just being rewired.

So diary, why am I talking to you? It makes a pleasant change, that's why. I've been in Venezuela for 3 weeks now, and settled in this village a week, no 10 days, ago. It's OK. Meets my needs. My little flat with a bed and a change of clothes. I found a throw that had been left in the cupboard – the last tenant died so she doesn't need it – and fashioned it into a sarong.

It's not a bad place. The villagers speak to me and pass the time of day, though my Spanish is halting. I did pick up a dictionary on the way here. The sun bakes the earth each day but there's usually a breeze, and walking by the ocean is calming. Relaxing.

I need time to unwind. Too much to process. I feel numb. Like every nerve and brain cell has been cauterised.

I just wish Lisbon could be here. I look for her round every corner. I've lost count of the times that I think I've spotted her along the distant shoreline. Sometimes I feel like I'm coming down from that wacky belladonna tea. Or like a homing pigeon that's lost its sense of navigation. Just circling, unable to return to the coop. Pretty dumb, huh?

I guess I need the time out. Time to think about my precious girls. To grieve for them now that the guilt isn't blocking that. I don't look forward to it but it has to be done. I want to remember them as they were. Alive and happy. Not mutilated and dead. No wonder the memory palace is offline.

Lisbon once told me that the ultimate test of love is letting go. Accepting that I still belong with the living even if they're dead. That's what they would want of me, if they could still want anything. And therefore that is how Lisbon reckons that I should honour their memory. By embracing the life and the future that they didn't get to have. I guess she's right. She usually is. But that's asking so much of me that I'm not sure I can deliver. I know that I'm a selfish coward. That's not news. So I'm going to wallow and wander in the memories a little while longer. The good ones, that is. At least when my brain decides to come back. And in the meantime, there's sleep. Lots of it. Can't get enough!

Well diary, that's enough for today. What do you think? Is this the start of a long and beautiful friendship, or are you bored already? Mmm. As taciturn as Cho. You'll do fine, you know.


	3. Chapter 3

**Dear Diary, ch3 **

_**Disclaimer: I own no rights to the Mentalist and make no money from fanfiction. **_

_Thank you to Sue Shay and Cumberland River Relic for their kind critiques of an earlier version of this chapter. Check out their recently completed and heartwarming stories, 'White Out' and 'Baby Blue Skies'._

_Thank you to everyone who read, followed, favourited or reviewed this story so far._

**_13th December, 2013_**

Dear Diary,

I thought it was time to pick you up again.

The last week has been quiet. It felt like the Sacramento morgue after hours. But I've kept myself busy. I cleaned the kitchen and the bathroom. And then I cleaned them again. I pulled everything out of the closet, thinking I might sort it all by colour. But then I didn't. Just stuffed everything back in again.

Pointless really.

Though the time goes by. Too quickly in some ways. I catch sight of the date and wonder where yesterday went. Still, doesn't look like I'm going to run out of my leisure hours anytime soon. I'm so damned tired and I don't know why.

I go for a run. I shop. I watch TV. And then I shop again. My cupboards have never been so well stocked – except for when Jane came round to cook, laden with half the supermarket – but now I have foodstuffs in and I can't think what to do with any of them.

Jane…. Was there nothing that man couldn't do? His lasagne was to die for. Not to mention the desserts. Like the homemade tiramisu that he lavished on me last time. One advantage of his mentalist skills. He never had to second guess what it was that I really wanted.

I hope beyond hope that he's OK. That he found peace. And he'll find a reason to live again, now McAllister's dead.

Jane could always ground himself in the small things – the taste of ripe strawberries, the morning sun's first rays, or the smell of the ocean. It's one of the things that I love about him and the reason that I think he'll be able to carry on. He made me really look at the world sometimes, in a way that I never did, and appreciate the beauty and wonder of life. And I know he'll have that still. It's part of the essence of Jane, along with the ability to infuriate any authority figure in a 20 mile radius. Though he needs to remember that he no longer has armed backup at his shoulder now.

I wonder where he is. I bet he made for the coast. I can imagine him standing on some distant shoreline in his shirtsleeves and vest, the afternoon breeze slicking his curls back as he watches the waves surge. Does he even still wear a vest? He must. Jane without a vest is unthinkable.

Where would he have gone? I don't know. Could be a tropical paradise island, or he could have headed off to the wilds of Canada to watch grizzly bears in their natural habitat. Or rented a remote cottage on the cliffs of Maine. Or even headed out on a tour of Europe and Australia.

When you can bend the whole world to your whims and will, as Jane could expertly, it doesn't seem to matter where you are. Penthouse or prison. He proved that more than once. I'll never forget going to see him in the County Jail after he shot Timothy Carter. He sat there in the visitors' room, almost unfazed by the thought of a life sentence in prison or a lethal injection. He seemed more concerned about me discharging myself from the hospital. In fact, scrub that. What he really cared about was the prospect of a blueberry muffin.

Ugh, Jane. I'm doing it again. Babbling on about Jane like he's the sun that my little planet is orbiting… And I used to have self-respect!

I wish I could do something about the ache in my soul. He was more than a friend or a partner to me. In our own idiosyncratic way, we were bonded. And I feel like I've been disembowelled without him beside me. And I never can see him again.

No wonder that bottle of tequila is calling my name.

Just one drink. Just one.

There's still half a bottle in the fridge, though it looks like both my shot glasses need washing again.

_One day later_

Whoever said that tequila didn't give you a hangover was joking. I pray that the absence of liquid in the bottle means that I spilled it all last night rather than drank it. That would have been acceptable...

But sadly I know better. I blame it on the radio. I was driving back from Walmart listening to KZHC and of all the things to play, they had to dig out "More than words". You know, my favourite song from that stupid high school reunion, where Jane asked me to dance? When he pulled me into his arms and held me close - up against him, where I could rest my head on his shoulder and absorb the subtle masculinity of his cologne. I remember the way his arms wrapped around me and the heat that radiated from his body. And I could feel his soft humming as it reverberated in his chest. I felt like I could stop fighting the undertow and just float free in an ocean of Jane, letting him support me and soothe me. Safe.

I'd never felt like that. There was attraction and there was sex. Things I know well. But I'd never known them to be tempered with this all-accepting calm.

Even if he didn't mean anything by it, that was the day I realised something. I wasn't just attracted to my consultant. I was in love. Not as I let myself believe it at the time, but subconsciously I can see now that I knew. It would just take a lot longer for my rational mind to succumb to the truth.

The ball was in play in the ultimate roulette game. Because loving Jane wasn't just loving him as a woman can love a man. It was also about embracing his past and his obsession with Red John. Always coming second to a dead woman and a dead child. And that was the least of it. Jane and McAllister had become a package deal. Locked onto each other in a death grip, like a pair of heat-seeking missiles. It was never just about vengeance or escape. It long ago became about proving who was the smarter person in the room. And that kind of challenge fuelled both of them, more deadly and more addictive than a pure batch of crack cocaine. Bosco and his team were swept away as collateral damage, at least by McAllister. Jane did have some limits.

And speaking of limits. To his credit, Jane didn't try to develop my feelings for him further. Apart from the infamous 'Love you' before he pretend shot me, and then let me be blindsided by his new 'lover', and that night he left me on the beach by the road to Malibu, he never suggested that he may return my feelings. We remained friends. Companions. Partners. And he needed that as much as I did, I think.

Some days I miss him so much that I want to scream. To grab an amplifier and turn my pain into a wall of sound that's strong enough to knock whole buildings down.

Aaarrrgggghhhhhh!

But I must stop being maudlin. Self-pity is not going to help me or Jane. He would expect better of me.

I will phone Tommy tonight and take him up on the offer to stay with him and Annabeth for a few days. It's high time that I went to see them. They've been living in Pheonix for two years now and I haven't visited once. I was too busy with work to get to their housewarming, or spend Thanksgiving with them. Much good that did me in the end.

I wonder if Annie will still want to be a cop when she hears about everything that went down.

I find myself smiling as I think about it. The smile of the damaged and disillusioned. She probably knows anyway. It must have been all over the news whilst Abbott had the team and me in detention. There's still enough of it now. I can't stomach watching current affairs programmes anymore. Every day more and more corruption is unearthed. It's never ending.

Rationally, I know that I have every reason to feel proud of what I, and the team, achieved. We stopped a prolific serial killer and bust open the extensive dry-rot in the heart of Californian law enforcement. But every morning when I wake up with nowhere to be, I can't help but feel like an abject failure.

Not the way to get through this I know. I've been through rough patches before... and all that.

I'll head over to Pheonix on Wednesday. Spend tomorrow deciding what to pack.

You know, I wonder if Abbott's tame lapdogs will follow me to my brother's. They could put a tail on him too. The FBI evidently has money and resources to burn.

And God forbid that they use them to case out real criminals.

To quote a Jane-ism…. "Meh!"


	4. Chapter 4

_Thank you to Sue Shay and Cumberland River Relic for their detailed comments and helpful critique of an earlier draft of this chapter. Check out their latest stories – "White Out" and "Baby Blue Skies"._

_Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and make no money from fanfiction. No copyright infringement intended._

* * *

**_March 23__rd__, 2014: Four months after McAllister's demise_**

Dear Diary,

It's 4.15am here on the Venezuelan coast. And surprisingly enough, I can't sleep. It's like my body's suddenly remembered that it should be on California time. And 1.45 in the morning was always a respectable hour to be pacing the CBI attic, especially after that damned CD of Lorelei turned up. Not to mention the times when we'd already be out on a case. The city never sleeps when you're working homicide.

I stretch and yawn. Too early to bug Alfredo yet so I'll dig into my meagre supply of tea bags. How I would love a nice loose leaf oolong right now, or even a mango and lime, but the local store doesn't stretch beyond the 'default' teabag box, covered in Spanish on a swirly yellow background. Tasteful. In more ways than one!

Okay, cup of liquid sawdust now in hand, I can be here for you, my confidant. It may taste awful but the tea is wet and warm, with enough caffeine to make it worth the effort of brewing it.

But, you know diary, I can't think of anything to write. My life isn't too boring – OK that's not strictly true – but nothing stands out.

You know, I think I'll take my tea and go down to the beach. Dawn should be breaking in another hour or so and perhaps the feral cats will be around. There's some fish that I want rid of and they'd enjoy it. Mmm, what do you call a group of wild cats anyway? Once I would have known, but now it seems unimportant. It wouldn't be a pride or a pack. Maybe just an association? That would be more like it. It's the best description.

The tide should be well on its way out. It'll be at its highest around 3pm I think because it was in just after lunch yesterday.

Yep, that's a plan. I can slip through the enveloping darkness again with the crescent moon to guide me down the main road. I'll settle on the sand in the glow of the harbour lantern for a while, or maybe find a sheltered spot and watch the stars. Last time I did that, I counted 134 of them. Then mapped them to 36 constellations using a book that I found at the schoolhouse. Perhaps I'll see more today.

After some quiet time cocooned in the pre-dawn darkness, I'll likely walk out towards the water as the dawn cacophony starts. As you know, that's the alarm for the fishermen to be launching their boats. They'll not bother me. Today they'll have quite a way to drag their craft to reach the tide, and they'll be too busy for social talk.

Mmm, let me grab my sweater…

* * *

_5.50 am_

Dawn is well underway. The horizon is streaking silver and the rising sun throws a straight path across the smooth sea surface. I sit by the water, watching the waves as they curl and crash, letting the swish and drag soothe me. Least that's the plan.

Restlessness has been building inside me for a few days now. And memories of Malibu – my mutilated girls and the psychopath's note – have escaped from lockdown in my memory palace. They're always there, front and centre, never giving me peace. The images haunt my waking hours as well as my dreams.

I should be used to the guilt. It's nothing new. But I guess that when you live in hell every day, the bad days aren't much worse than the other days. It's strange to find that when you improve in general, then the bad days become crippling. More devastating. Much harder to fight. I feel like I have lead blocks in my belly and the headache zaps from one side of my skull to the other and back again, threatening to split my forehead open. Not to mention that it's hard to breathe. Hotel California, huh?

It's no good, diary. I need to walk. And walk. And search for my darling Angela. I know she's not here, but I need to talk with her. Scream and beseech her till I'm prostrate on the sand with every muscle rigid. And even that won't be enough. _I'm sorry, my love. So, so sorry._

* * *

_7.15pm_

What can I say? I'm drained. Exhausted and empty. I guess I should catch you up on the day's events. Then maybe I can sleep.

It was embarrassing.

I almost had to be rescued. As it was, I needed serious help.

For some reason, every time I find myself in a tight spot I hear Lisbon's voice berating me. I think eventually that she would see the funny side and laugh. At least she would after the usual lecture about irresponsibility and the senselessness of putting myself in needless danger. And after demonstrating her need to punch me in the nose, of course. I never did get that. Your reward for returning safely is physical abuse. I think it was usually payback for frightening her though. A Lisbon-like way to show she cared. But my hand goes up automatically to cradle the much abused appendage even if it's only remembered pain this time. For a small woman, she could certainly let fly.

So diary, what can I say.

After I left you this morning, tucked away in a recess under the back of Alfredo's cantina, I began to walk. And walk. And walk. Totally wrapped up in my head and my memories. I had no notion of anything. Just reaching out for Angela. Yearning for a connection.

Turns out I must have walked for five or six hours. I'd almost reached the next settlement, which is a good 20 miles or more along the coast.

So what happened? I remember feeling exhausted and sinking down into the hot sand, the sun boring into my back and unprotected head, and my throat feeling like it'd been slaked with brine. And I must have fallen asleep. I woke to one of the villagers kneeling beside me, shaking me and rattling on in frantic Spanish. The tide was on the march. We were surrounded on three sides, with the channel on the fourth rapidly filling. It was time to go.

I tried to follow my guardian angel back up the beach but I stumbled a few times, getting drenched in salt water. It was cooling but smarted on my sunburned skin, and I was still disorientated. Heat exhaustion I guess, and dehydration.

Mmm. Not really clear about what followed. Several people. Machine gun Spanish. I choked out the name of my village but I couldn't speak properly and they didn't understand. Someone appeared with a long glass of cool, clear water. I downed it in one, and they fetched me some more. And a bucket of well water to rinse the salt off my skin.

Eventually I was able to tell them where I was from, and a podgy lady in her 50's broke into a smile. "Alfredo? You know Alfredo?" she asked me, speaking slowly and clearly so I could follow the Spanish, though in my addled state it took me several attempts. When I nodded, she grabbed me in a bear hug. It took all my energy and focus not to faint away from the strain!

Lots more rapid fire Spanish, to and fro around the little group of my self-appointed protectors. Then I'm bundled into a Jeep, along with two crates of mixed spirits and a sack of some local produce, and driven back to Alfredo's cantina by a bear of a man. Huge but friendly. A bit like Rigsby but much rounder. I think I fell asleep again on the way back.

I'm still a little groggy, after enduring 2 hours of Alfredo's alternate cajoling and nursing. His wife, Anna, took me in and kept feeding me water, and they made me eat. I begged them for tea but they wouldn't hear of it. Meh! I'm OK. No need to fuss. Even if it was kind of them.

So diary, eventually I managed to escape and to retrieve you from where I'd left you. And we came home together. And that was that.

One good thing about talking with you. Whatever you think, you won't punch me in the nose, or yell at me for being an idiot. You're kinda nice that way. Though I do miss my angry little princess, and her Glock wielding skills.

Anyway, good night and sweet dreams. I'm off to bed.

* * *

_March 24__th__, 2014. 11am_

I've just crawled out of bed. Slept like a hibernating bear. And I feel so much better. Hope is welling up within me as a crystal spring, sluicing away my pain.

Water metaphors….. Probably cause I'm still thirsty.

I need to get me some eggs. And a pot of tea.

And to thank Anna and Alfredo for their kindness. One day I will find a way to return the favour. There must be something that they would like.

Okay diary, I'm outta here. See ya later.


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and make no money from fanfiction._

_Thank you to my two critique partners, Sue Shay and Cumberland River Relic, for all their time, insights and encouragement. Much appreciated. Check out their latest stories: 'White Out' and 'Baby Blue Skies'._

_**Sacramento, 8**__**th**__** January, 2014**_

Dear Diary,

I did it. I screwed up my courage and called Tommy back in mid-December and he invited me over for Christmas with him and Annie. I stayed from Christmas Eve until the Epiphany, so I've just got back.

I was nervous, I've got to say. It's been years since I did anything for Christmas except curl up with a good book, some old movies and a couple of bottles of wine. And go to midnight Mass, of course. I haven't attempted to celebrate a 'family' Christmas since I moved away from Chicago. OK, before that, I tried to do the whole presents, house trimming and big meal thing for the boys. But after I left, I kicked back against the idea. Christmas would be a holy celebration and a time for me, not a time for slaving in the kitchen to try to live up to cultural expectations. It's difficult to see why the teenaged me bothered with all the festivities so much now. Any chance of keeping up with the neighbours vanished when my father took to the bottle. Not to mention him killing himself. But I didn't want my brothers to miss out on their childhoods. On the magic of Christmas. Even if I had to scrimmage and scrape every penny to make it happen back then.

No, these days, a low key Christmas, with a chance to relax, has suited me fine.

So going over to Tommy and Annie's for Christmas was… strange. From always being the organiser and the one in charge, I was going to be in a new position. That of the fragile sister and aunt. The one to be looked after and tiptoed around. I can't tell you how much that idea scared and irritated me in equal measure.

But I worried for nothing. Christmas with Tommy and Annie was pretty unconventional too. Yes, they'd trimmed the apartment up with a small tree and tinsel and party lights everywhere. But Christmas lunch all came in easily microwaveable form, and the cake was from Pro's Ranch Market Bakery. Delicious! I took over some homemade trifle, which went down well.

Tommy greeted me with a hug when I turned up on his doorstep on the 24th and handed me a bottle of red wine and a glass. Annie was so excited that she couldn't stop talking. Wanting to know how I was and what had really gone down at the CBI. From the moment I hung up my coat and settled in the armchair by the fire, she started the interrogation, whilst Tommy flitted around in the background listening, butting in from time to time. We talked and talked and talked. And along the lines the bottles emptied and the clock turned round. It must have been around 3am when we called it a night.

You know, it's been so long since I could let off steam to someone who really cares about me and who wants to be in my corner. And who knew what Jane could be like, too. I mean, that takes some explaining, after all.

It was so nice to spend Christmas Day chilling out with Tommy and Annie, not slaving away to make up for not being the perfect family. We ate and drank and laughed. Got out some of the old photo albums back from when Annie was little, much to her embarrassment. And then later we sat around over pizza and played every card game we could think of from 'Go Fish' to blackjack and poker. Good thing Jane wasn't there cause we were all pretty tipsy by this stage. Oh, who am I kidding? Sober or sloshed, Jane would have taken us all to the cleaners anyway.

Then we had a few days out exploring Phoenix. We spent a great afternoon go-karting at the Octane Raceway, and I went off by myself for a day, taking in the art gallery and the Pueblo and Archaeological Park. It's so refreshing to hear of people digging up remains without this instantly sparking off a manhunt. And to see a different approach to forensics in action. It's amazing what can be learned from things which are hundreds of years old.

Needless to say, Annie and I hit the shooting gallery a few times, and the local gym. She was a great shot when I last saw her, two years ago, and she's even better now. My niece is still determined to become a cop, despite everything that's gone down recently, and is planning to do a one year course in criminal justice next year before applying to the police academy. Sometimes all her enthusiasm makes me smile.

Annie'll make a great contribution to law enforcement. Whichever department she ends up in will have gained a talented and hardworking recruit. And, in some ways, she reminds me of myself back when I started. Idealistic and determined for sure, but also grounded and practical.

It's strange really, thinking of Tommy's girl as being all grown up. I can't help but remember her as a child. But you don't get away with that with Annie. She has a way about her which commands your respect. She's a good antidote to how jaded I've been feeling recently. Hunting monsters is like hurling yourself repeatedly at a cliff face, expecting that the force alone will make it fall down. And after more than a decade on the Red John hunt, perhaps it's not surprising that I'm numb.

So…yeah. A great Christmas. And something that we must do again. Maybe I'll invite them over next year.

You know, it's been great for my sense of perspective, spending time with those two. They've helped me to clear my mind about a lot of things.

If someone had told me, all those years ago when I started out in foot patrol, that one day I would lead the team that brought down the worst serial killer that California has ever known, I would have been very happy with that. On top of that, my team had the best case closed record in the whole history of the CBI. And when cases were closed, they were done right. By the book? No chance. But properly, with the true perpetrators brought to justice and the innocent freed? You bet. And Jane, for all his foibles and his influence on my career progression, was a huge part of that.

If, instead of Minelli foisting him on me when I first joined the CBI, I'd have been given an opportunity to work with Jane back then, with full clairvoyant awareness of what that would cost me, good and bad, I would have leapt at the chance. More killers caught. More civilians safe in their beds. It's a no-brainer. I do wish missing Patrick didn't hurt so much but that's the price I must pay for the most important friendship of my life. I never expected to fall in love with him.

And as for the Blake corruption. Horrific – yes. Nauseating – yes. But I would rather be unemployed having unearthed it than knowingly worked within it. And that doesn't just go for me but for the whole team too. They were the best agents that any leader could have had the privilege to work with.

Overall, despite how things are now, I have to say that I have been blessed. Few people get the chance to make such a difference.

I've been doing some thinking about where I can go from here. I've realised that what really matters to me is continuing to work in law enforcement. I know that I can't expect to find an equivalent position now, not after all the Blake related hoo-haa, so I'm going to look more widely. If I need to start again from a low rung on the ladder, so be it. As long as I can protect and serve the people around me, then that's good enough for me. And I must thank Tommy and Annie for helping me to see that.

So back to the recruitment websites. I'm going to update my CV starting today. It's high time that I left Sacramento anyway, and who knows what might come up.

Oh, and I nearly forgot so say… I came back to find a wedding invitation. Virgil and May. I am so delighted for them. They make a lovely couple and May's warm-hearted, no-nonsense approach to life is just what Virgil needs. The wedding's not until April but they wanted to make sure that I'd be able to attend. Nothing would make me happier.

So diary, that's all for today. Time to get the laundry done and to give Virgil a call.


	6. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with the Mentalist and make no money from fanfiction._

_With thanks to Sue Shay and Cumberland River Relic for their friendship, help and support. Check out their latest stories: Sue's "Mentalist 2.0 drabble collection" and Bill's intriguing tale "In the wee small hours". _

_Happy Easter for Sunday._

_**April 24**__**th**__**, 2014**_

Dear Diary,

It's come around again. April 24th. The day of all the days in the year that I really can't stand.

Today was Charlotte's birthday. She was 7 years old when she was murdered.

My beautiful little Lottie. She had Angela's cheekbones, deep brown eyes and freckles. And my colouring, my hair. It fell in golden ringlets down her back, tamed with latest Disney bow or clips. She always looked adorable. I remember when she lost her milk teeth and her smile was all gappy at the front. It could still make my heart melt into a puddle of sticky goo.

Charlotte loved singing and music, and chasing the seagulls down the beach. I'd play catch with her out on the sand for hours. She had me wrapped around her finger. I couldn't say no to her.

At least that's how it was when I was around. When I wasn't, because I'd put fame and fortune first, I told myself that it was all for her. That I was making money so that she'd never want for anything. She'd have the best education and a chance to hob-nob with the stars. She'd never know what it was to wear dirty rags or to starve when there was no more money for food. She'd never be an outsider or an outcast.

I had good intentions. But the wrong ones. I never figured that she needed my time and my love more than she needed diamond studded earrings or the latest toy. And I conveniently denied to myself how much I craved the limelight for my inflated ego. That really, it was all for me.

For Charlotte's last Birthday, I got her a new bike, a necklace with a golden horse hanging from it, a state of the art entertainment centre, and a pink princess dress done in taffeta, lace and silk. She loved the necklace and the dress, and the riding lessons that Angela had got for her. That was our Lottie. Part the dress up kid, into tea parties and picnics, and part the animal loving tomboy. We were going to get her a dog for her birthday but I hadn't been at home long enough for us to go for one.

You don't know how much I regret that.

Usually, when this time of year rolls round again, I take the day off. I book out the Venice Gardens café in Malibu for the whole afternoon. That's where Angie, Lottie and I last went out together. And I sit there at the same table in the corner, set for 3 people. And I drink. And I drink. And I drink. When I hit the floor, the staff know to bundle me in a cab and ask the driver to take me back to the family home. I usually crash on the carpet behind the front door and sleep it off.

Before today, there's just been one exception in the 11 years that I spent at the CBI. That year, I only got half wrecked and took the evening flight back to Sacramento. That's when I burned the Red John files on the CBI roof, and setup my exit plan, ready for my last big con to trap the serial killer. The con that, in the end, cost Wainright his life.

I'll never know how Luther ended up in that car out in the Las Vegas desert. The Blake Association must have got to him somehow. And I wonder when he knew that everything had gone to hell? Did he get to Vegas OK, thinking that he was coming to see me arrested, or did he know by then that he'd been kidnapped? Being bound and gagged by strangers, and stuffed into the back of that car, must have been terrifying for him. And even more so when he heard the voice of Red John. But at least he died knowing once and for all that I wasn't in league with the sociopath. I wonder if that was any comfort?

I feel bad about Luther's death. I always did. He was the exemplary desk agent. An energetic young man and a rising star with all the right moves but no street savvy. And it cost him. It cost him dearly.

But, as Lisbon would tell me, he was a cop. He signed up to put his life on the line and to protect the people of California. But there's going down in a hail of bullets, saving innocent bystanders, and there's being betrayed and mown down for nothing. Like Wainright was. Like Bosco and his team were.

It was a wonder that Lisbon stayed upright after that one. Losing her friend and mentor. It's as well she never knew that Bosco agreed with me about killing Red John when I found him.

Lisbon. How I miss her. I wouldn't have got through the last decade without her.

But what am I gonna do today? I could go to the cantina and drink myself blind, or to the hotel bar, but it'll only upset people. Someone would intervene, would try to look after me, because that's what they do here. The village is a family of sorts, and even the distant cousins like me are welcome. Lisbon would laugh if she heard that. Well, no, not laugh. She'd be relieved.

I can't help but worry about what happened to her, and to Cho, Rigsby and van Pelt, after they went up against Abbott for me. I hope they're all doing OK. And I hope that they got that last voicemail that I left for Teresa. That they know I'm fine.

You know dear diary, today I'm going to break tradition.

I can't change the fact that Charlotte is dead. Nothing I do will rewind the past. And as the teenaged version of her nagged me about during the belladonna incident, there is no way that I can make things up to her or her mum. I can only choose whether to live and to let people in, or whether to stagnate and withdraw. Maybe I've done enough of that.

Thinking back, Lisbon saved my life so many times. If not for her and Sophie Miller, I would have died a long time ago. And that's not exaggerating. Sophie put me back together enough to be able to function in robotic mode. Lisbon challenged me and made me take an interest. Made me stay involved, contribute to the team and build myself a niche.

One thing that I am so thankful for is that Lisbon survived the Red John years. And the other team members too, but especially Lisbon. The night she vanished and we found her with that smiley on her face, drawn in Partridge's blood, is one of the two worst nights of my life. I was so glad when she started to toss and turn in that hospital bed. When she opened her eyes. I was convinced up to that point that she'd have been turned into an empty shell, like Krystina Frye. That my arrogance would have cost me not only Angela and Charlotte but also the one other woman who meant the world to me.

That would have finished me off for good.

I'm going to stare out of the window for a minute while I review my options. My eyes are leaking and the page is swimming. Allergies, you know.

I'm sorry for making you wait, dear diary, but honesty has a price.

OK. I've decided.

Today I'm going to walk up to the headland and spend some quiet time listening to the birdsong and soaking up the sun. Then I will come back and open that half bottle of whisky under the sink. Enough to make me decently drunk but not completely wasted. And I will lie back on my bed and I will remember the happy times. From the first day Angela arrived on the carney circuit that I worked with my father, through to our wedding and onto Charlotte's birth. And then I'll remember my little girl as the treasure she was. From soiled diapers to toothy grins and scraped knees. The lullabies, fairy wings and sandcastle building. And her and me paddling in the warm Malibu waters in summer or kite flying on the beach.

It's going to break my heart and I'll probably howl like a baby myself. But this is how I do justice to their memories. To my darling wife and child. I will face the pain and remember them as I should. As they were. As I loved them and as they loved me. I'll always love them. But I must face up to that now, rather than lock it all down behind the hurricane doors in my mind. I must let the memories back in. Cherish them as they deserve.

That should keep me occupied for most of the day. Maybe more.

And then I'll fast forward all the way to the self-confident and beautiful young lady, full of backchat and too smart for her own good, whom I met in my hallucinations.

And after that, I will sleep, I hope.

Tomorrow I'll wake up again and face another day. For Lisbon. For the faith she showed in me. For the prayers that I'm sure she still says for me.

Knowing that she's out there somewhere, reaching out for me, it keeps me grounded and gives me the courage to go on. I owe her too much to do otherwise.

My rock. My compass. My saviour.

And my best friend.


	7. Chapter 7

_Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with The Mentalist in any way and make no money from fanfiction._

_Thank you to my writing partners, Sue Shay and Cumberland River Relic. Their friendship, insight and support is much appreciated, as is the time that they give to critiquing my stories. Check out their latest work. Sue is continuing her 'Mentalist 2pt0 Drabble Collection', following on from the crime story and romance, 'White Out' set in the Colorado winter. Cumberland River Relic has recently completed his tale of intrigue and switch backs, 'In the wee small hours of the morning', following on from the second of his AU stories set in Cannon River, 'Baby Blue Skies'._

_**April 22**__**nd**__**, 2014**_

Dear Diary,

Just a quick note tonight. Tomorrow May and Virgil are getting married at Holy Cross Church in Sacramento. Virgil's ex-wife died three years ago, so there was no reason why he and May couldn't have the full religious ceremony.

I've got to say, I am so excited for them both. They invited me round for dinner three weeks ago, and we had a great evening. I have no doubt that they'll be very happy together. The deep love they share shines in both their faces, tempered by a compassion and warm humour that draws you in. You want to spend time with them, basking in the peripheral glow. It makes the world seem brighter really.

Virgil isn't having a best man. He reckons that he can take care of his own ring. But he asked me if I would be an usher. I was so happy. A chance to be there for the man I consider my surrogate father, and to be part of his wedding day, but without the need for satin bridesmaid dresses or other frippery. My best black pantsuit will be fine, brightened with a red silk blouse that I got for the occasion.

It'll be a small wedding. Around thirty-five invitees. A few of them, like Cho and I, are people from Virgil's CBI days. And he has some cousins coming from Montana. There will also be a couple of people he's met from the charity work he's now doing. Working with kids from disadvantaged neighbourhoods to improve their literacy.

The majority of guests are from May's side. Some coworkers and quite a few from the AA meetings which I know she still runs. The reception is going to be at a country club near Fresno and it'll be a soft drinks bar only. No wine or champagne with this wedding breakfast.

Well diary, I'll sign off here. Go and get an early night, ready for tomorrow. I've agreed to help decorate the church first thing. Fetch and carry the flower arrangements and all that. I can't wait.

* * *

**_April 23__rd__, 2014_**

Dear Diary,

I am so glad to get home and to kick off my best shoes. They may not be stilettos but they were still rubbing my heels by the end of the night. And I'd forgotten how much it hurts to walk when your toes feel like they're going through a metal press.

The wedding went smoothly. It was such a lovely service. Virgil had scrubbed up well and May looked radiant in her simple ivory knee-length dress. Her long hair was loose, held back from her face by freesia-adorned clips and she carried a bouquet of cream and white flowers nestled in a green leaf surround. When Virgil lifted her veil, I thought for a moment that his heart might burst open. I felt my eyes flooding, and desperately alternated rapid blinking with squeezing them shut to stop any embarrassing overflows. Thank goodness for waterproof mascara, that's all I can say. I couldn't help myself. It was just so beautiful.

Afterwards, I was busy, making sure everyone stayed for the photographs and that they knew where to find the reception. Generally making sure everything went off smoothly.

The reception was fine. Touching speeches from the bride and groom, short but sincere. And then the cutting of the cake, followed by the buffet. That was all good. I spent a little time sat with Cho. He's thinking of applying to the FBI in Austin. Apparently Abbott's been in touch with him to suggest it. I'm glad for Cho. He deserves to be valued as the damned fine agent that he is.

When the main course was over and everyone moved onto desserts, I decided to mingle. It gave me chance to catch up with some of the old unit leaders from Minelli's days. Stephenson has retired, Andrews is moving to the FBI in Philadelphia and Granger has decided to retrain and go into law. I seem to be the only person who doesn't have a clear goal for the future.

When the lights went down and the music started, I watched the happy couple take their first dance together as husband and wife, slowly moving round the floor to the strains of 'Wind Beneath My Wings.' Then I escaped to the restroom for a while, and then off to get some fresh air in the car park.

I knew that I couldn't leave until the Minellis' did, but by that stage, waiting around was torture. Nothing like a wedding to remind you that you're alone. That you have no partner, no family, no life and no job. That the loneliness demon on your shoulder has grown to the size of a house, crushing you into the ground beneath its weight.

But I sucked it up and went back into the reception. Hovered by the bar, far enough away from the dance floor, wishing there was some place that sold tequila. Or gin. Or whisky.

I hate to sound so depressed and helpless. Here I am, a forty year old woman, crying at the marriage of a man in his sixties and a woman in her late fifties. How dumb is that?

I am glad for them. I really am. And I wish them nothing but happiness. But what about me? Why didn't Jane find me someone to love too? If he didn't want me, it was the least he could have done. Instead of ten years of hot and cold, flirting and then denying.

I'm not going to bed tonight. I'll sit here on the couch and watch old movies until either I break down and howl or the last of my tequila bottle takes effect.

And that's not even all. Back at the wedding, before May arrived, Virgil pulled me to one side to give me a note. I've just read it. It says that there's a chance of a police chief's position in a backwater hamlet in rural Washington. And he's put in a good word for me. I don't know whether to be grateful that Virgil would think of my welfare even on his wedding day, or mortified at the demotion. Former Special Agent detective and unit leader, now considering a life of stray dogs and occasional DUIs.

Nice.

Last time I felt like this… No, scrub that. I haven't felt this down and helpless in the last 10 years. For all he could be a pain in the butt, Jane wouldn't have let me get into this state. He'd be there with a trick or a coffee or a bear claw or something.

Oh God, Jane. Where are you? I need you. I really do.

I miss you so much it feels like I'm drowning. You… you idiot. If only you'd just shot McAllister, you could still be here with me. But nobody, not even you, can claim that you strangled someone in self-defence!

Did you not see what this would do to me? Of course you did, you son-of-a-bitch. You just didn't care.

You bastard!


	8. Chapter 8

_Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with the Mentalist and make no money from fanfiction._

_With thanks to Sue Shay and Cumberland River Relic for their advice, friendship and support. In particular, thank you to CRR for his feedback on this chapter._

_**17**__**th**__** May, 2014**_

Dear Diary,

It's six months now since I left California. Sometimes it seems like much longer. The days here are restful and flow together without my consciously noticing the passing of time. It feels like I've been here forever.

Sometimes I try to remember. To relive my last showdown with McAllister. Feel how the sweat-soaked skin of his neck yielded to my pressure. See the life draining from those watery blue eyes. But it's all unreal now. Like a movie scene or something from an old fable.

What I have done is to make peace with my girls. Every morning now, when I first awake, I run through three good memories of each of them. Angie and Lottie. I recall their laughter and the way that we'd dance. The softness of baby skin and the silken strands of my wife's hair. More than anything, I remember tenderness. What it was like to love and to be loved.

Sometimes it makes me sad. Sure it does. It's not unheard of for me to end up snivelling, curled up on my mattress, or rocking myself back and forth as I watch the tide. But the emotions are easier now. The sadness is mixed with happiness. The crushing weight is gone.

I may not be a believer in any kind of afterlife, but somehow, I know that they are both still with me. They're a part of me. Something that I cannot let go of or lose. And that gives me comfort.

And in the last few days especially, I find myself thinking about Lisbon.

Teresa is the best friend that I've ever had. For almost 11 years, she was by my side every day. She was the one person, other than Angie, who I could be honest with. Who accepted me for who I am, arrogance and obsessions notwithstanding.

And what did I leave her with? Nothing. Complete wreckage.

How is the workaholic going to cope when she has no job? No purpose? No status?

I don't doubt that Lisbon is going through hell right now. Oh, she's a tough cookie, and a survivor. But I walked away and left her at a time when she would never have needed me more. And that's something I feel terrible about.

I had no choice. I had to track down and kill Red John. And, if I survived, that just left the options of prison, death by Blake Association or exile. I chose the most life-affirming path that I could. There was no option but to leave her behind.

Sometimes I fantasise about contacting Teresa. Sending her a one way aeroplane ticket to Caracas, so we could be together again and free. But that would never happen. My little cop could never stand the insecurity of being a fugitive or the boredom of a life without badge and gun. It would still eat her alive. Just in a different way.

Now that my head has cleared enough, I'm fretting about my angry little princess. I don't even know if she received that last voicemail message that I left for her.

I know Lisbon. And Lisbon being Lisbon, she's going to worry about me. Whether I deserve it or not. And the best thing that I can do for her is to make sure she knows that I'm OK.

Mmm. So what are my options?

Calling her… That isn't going to work. I'll bet a million dollars that Abbott has her phones and e-mail accounts bugged. He isn't the kind of guy to just give in. Underneath that pompous and hard-assed exterior hides a sharp intellect and an implacability worthy of a fighting pit bull.

No, I'd have to find a way to contact her untraceably. And to make sure that nobody can blame her for hearing from me. I can't tell her where I am. Good cop Lisbon would be too torn about hiding a fugitive. Whilst her ability to lie has improved, I'm sure Abbott would still see right through her.

Time to sleep on it, I think.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with the Mentalist and make no money from fanfiction.

With thanks to Sue Shay and Cumberland River Relic for their friendship and support. Check out their latest stories: Sue's "Mentalist 2.0 drabble collection" and CRR's heartwarming vignette, "Blue Turtle". Particular thanks to CRR for critiquing this chapter and for his useful comments.

_**18**__**th**__** May, 2014**_

Dear Diary,

I had an interview today in Cannon River. I'm actually staying at a small hotel in the next town. You know, I was impressed. When they invited me up here, they insisted on providing me with accommodation for the night before our meeting and for tonight. Said that it was the least that they could do. And I also liked that they picked a place outside of the police department jurisdiction. They were careful not to exert undue influence or bias.

I could get used to this. I've always lived in the city, you know. Sacramento was quiet compared with San Francisco and Chicago. But Cannon River, it's tiny. Around 1,560 inhabitants they reckon. One school, one post office and one police station.

But here's what I like about it. It's so friendly. There's a real sense of community. People want to stop and talk with you. They want to tell you about their lives and ask about yours. I dropped by the local café first thing, to fortify myself with coffee before the interview, and I just got talking. Firstly it was the café owner, Jill Smith, and then her brother, Keith, one of the regulars, joined in. Before I knew it, I was sitting with them both having breakfast.

Could you imagine something like that happening in the city? Well, maybe if Jane was around. He could stir up any crowd. But otherwise…? No chance. Even without taking into account the gun and badge.

And that was another thing. It was OK to be in law enforcement. I didn't feel shunned, or an object of suspicion. Instead I felt… respected… like I haven't in a very long time.

The interview went well. It was really just a chance to meet with various people and talk some more. When I asked about crime in the region, it was all I could do not to laugh out loud when I heard the outrage and indignation about a series of local car thefts. If that's the worst that can happen….

And the people who I'd be working with. They were nice too. Two rookie officers, both locals, who've graduated from the Academy in the last two years. Henry and Alex. And then, one more experienced cop, Andrew, who moved to Cannon River when his wife's parents became ill and needed their support. He reminds me a little of Rigsby. Loyal, dependable and caring. But nobody's fool. He's settled for a quiet life, making a real difference in a small community, whilst being able to spend time with his family. They come first. No two ways about that.

If you'd have told me five years ago that I'd be considering a place like Cannon River, I would not have believed you. I'd have searched you for crack or LSD. That notion was just ridiculous.

But, for all it's a slumberous back water, I'm drawn to Cannon River. I need to feel part of something again, and to be able to lead. And there's a lot that I could do to modernise that police department and train up the more junior members of staff. And, more than anything, there's no Blake Association. It simply couldn't survive in a place like Cannon River. I could trust the people around me. And I can't tell you how refreshing that idea is.

Hey. You know, I'm excited. And a little hopeful. For the first time since the Red John hunt reached its final deadly stages.

One thing that I will never do again is live for my work, and my work alone. I remember Jane perching on the edge of my desk one evening telling me that I would regret the years spent as a slave to paperwork. And he was right. All it left me with was a profound sense of emptiness and having been used up and thrown away.

Cannon River is a beautiful little place. All weathered wooden buildings along the Main Street, with their picture windows jammed with anything from walking boots and fishing tackle to hunks of meat and baked goods. The settlement is just off the main tourist route but attracts its share of backpackers and trail explorers in the summer. Within a few miles, you can find pine forests and secluded lakes, with the snow clad Mt Ranier in the background. Apparently it's a great area to bike and hike.

But what really excited me about the place was the history. It was founded in the 1890's as a mining outpost. I went round the small museum whilst I was there. It's amazing what they have. From mineral samples to old jewellery and clothes, to black and white photographs from the early decades of the twentieth century. The place looks a lot like it did even eighty years ago.

Well I don't know whether anything will come of this or not, but I sure hope so.

Anyway, that was my day today, diary. Now it's time for bed.


	10. Chapter 10

_Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with The Mentalist in any way and make no money from fanfiction._

_With thanks to Sue Shay and Cumberland River Relic for their critique of this chapter and for their friendship and support. Check out their latest stories – Sue's 'Mentalist 2pt0 drabble collection' and CRR's 'Blue Turtle'._

_**15**__**th**__** June, 2014**_

Dear Diary,

Today's the day. I've thought long and hard about how I could get a message to Lisbon, wherever she is, without alerting Abbott and his goons. And I've come up with a simple plan. Step 1: find out where Teresa is living now. Step 2: ask Pete and Sam if they can get a message to Pepper. Based on the usual carney circuit, the Turners should be picking up mail in West Wendover, Nevada in a couple of weeks from now. And they owe me and Lisbon a favour for getting Caitlin back to them safely.

So it's step 1 that's the difficult one. I can't contact any of the old CBI team cause Abbott will have that covered. I thought about Tommy and Annie. Annie, especially, I think would help me. She liked me and she wouldn't have a problem with what I did to McAllister. But, if I involve Teresa's family, and things go belly up, she'll never forgive me. That leaves Madeline, but she and her kids may still be undercover pending resolution of the Blake Association crap. So in the end, there's only one shot, but it's a good one. Virgil. Abbott wouldn't think to keep surveillance on someone long retired. Off the grid and out of mind. But what is Minelli going to think of me? That is the question.

Right. So this is the plan. Tomorrow I head back to Caracas. I'm not too worried if the Feds figure I'm in Venezuela since they can't touch me here. And if I use an airport payphone, I could be staying or just passing through. Mmm. That works. No need to find an undercover poker game to secure back channel access to a burner phone. In the US, I could find the right kind of contacts without any fuss. Always someone keen to sell you something. But here, with my halting Spanish, poker would be the safest way in if I do ever find myself needing something like that in the future.

Mmm, Lisbon would be impressed. I'm considering my personal safety. Whatever next?

And the best plans are always the simplest, after all.

* * *

_**16**__**th**__** June, 2014**_

Dear Diary,

After a 5am start to catch the only connecting bus service of the day, I arrived here without incident and booked into a cheap motel for the night. I'll head back home tomorrow morning.

I got to the airport about an hour ago and made my way to a diner for some welcome tea and eggs. Not up to Alfredo's standards, but palatable nonetheless. I'm sitting here, sipping the last of my drink, whilst psyching myself up. The payphones are at the far end of the booking hall on the right hand side. Currently, that area is deserted, which is just what I need.

I'll head to the newsagent stand. Pick up some gum, some English language books and a copy of 'USA Today' – one advantage of an international transport hub – and then I'll go make that phone call.

* * *

Well, diary, that was an eye-opener, make no mistake. I didn't even know that Virgil knew that kind of language. It's nothing new to be called a son-of-a-bitch, but some of the other expletives, well they were colourful. I find myself shaking my head, like a cat with ear mites, trying to dislodge them from my eardrums.

Suffice to say, he was _not_ pleased to hear from me. Even though the lovely lady I fixed him up with is now his beautiful wife. That is one wedding that I am sorry that I had to miss.

But he did tell me what I needed to know. That the CBI is officially no more and that the team have scattered. Cho's doing OK. But Lisbon… Mmmeeerrrrr. She's not doing great. He didn't say so in quite so many words, but it's clear she ended up taking the fall for me, and did her best to shelter the others. So they threw the book at her and made her seem unemployable. The bastards. Nobody is more dedicated, courageous and hard-working than Lisbon. How dare they besmirch her good name!

But it turns out, I called the right person. Lisbon has just accepted a job as a police chief in a small town in Washington State. Cannon River. Minelli didn't have her address yet but that's good enough.

I'm going to head back to the motel for a while. Get some lunch, have an afternoon nap and then write my letters. Then I'll drop back here later to post them.

* * *

I have to say, diary, this has been an interesting trip. No doubt about that.

I'm sitting in my motel room, staring out of the window as I toss things over in my mind.

Teresa as a police chief in some backwater… That's so unfair that it makes me want to wring Abbott's neck with my bare hands. Something I could get a taste for. Though I must admit that my mood is somewhat lighter after the very pleasant little dream I just had. Lisbon in her police chief uniform, hair up in a tight bun, sporting a diamond encrusted tiara and angry as all hell with me. Wouldn't that be something? Shame I had to wake up….

The newspaper was informative. Apparently, the third week in the trial of Alexa Schultz began yesterday. The former FBI Director is on the hook for murder and corruption amongst other things. Another of the Blake Association's former senior lieutenants…. Now that's not a surprise.

And that's not all. The breadth and scale of the Association unearthed to date is staggering. And I bet that's only the start. Whilst I may not appreciate Abbott's behaviour regarding Lisbon and the team, when the man decides to clean house, he knows what he's doing.

Okaaayyyyy, time to write those letters. One for Pete and Sam, one which I'll ask them to pass onto Danny when they next see him, and then the really difficult one. For Teresa. I'm still struggling to think what to say.


End file.
